


Sick Days 101: Remedial Lessons for Rich Boys

by Trogdor19



Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23131222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trogdor19/pseuds/Trogdor19
Summary: Veronica has The Worst cold, and Logan is being his usual clueless rich boy self. It’s like he has no idea how to nurture a sick person at all. That’s it! She’s going to teach him if she has to forcibly blanket and bad-movie him herself.
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Comments: 78
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: We interrupt my regularly scheduled re-writing of S4 to bring you this fluffstorm of a hurt/comfort sick day story instead. With the Coronovirus pandemic, the world seems a scary and terrible place and I think we all need a little snuggling and grouchy Veronica coddling, don’t you think? This will have more than one chapter, depending on how much unabashed fluff and Logan henleys I need to feel better.  
> This takes place in Season 3 Hearst College, sometime when Logan and Veronica were happily dating.

“Rich people have the worst couches.” Veronica rolled over and flopped onto her back with a wince, her ponytail going crooked where she laid on it. “Like, you can afford a helipad, but can’t shell out for cushions that don’t feel like they’re stuffed with chrome?”

“We rich people are into looks over comfort, in case women’s fashion didn’t clue you in,” Logan said. “And my bed’s open, if you don’t like the couch.”

She laughed stuffily, then blew her nose and tossed the tissue at the growing mound on the coffee table. “Gotta give you points for persistence. Not even the Leaning Tower of Kleenex puts you off your endgame of getting me into bed.”

“Can I help it if you’re still pretty when you’re sick?” He sat on the edge of the couch and kissed her cheekbone, which was a good choice since it was maybe the only place on her body that wasn’t Kleenex-chapped, puffy, or otherwise made disgusting by the cold she’d caught working the case of the missing artisanal beeswax crayons in a preschool last week.

She gave him a coy smile, feeling a little less disgusting under the glow of her boyfriend’s attentions. Until he stood up and grabbed his backpack.

“Anyway, I’m off to be stimulated. Intellectually, that is.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Need me to grab you anything from the store while I’m gone?”

“Seriously? _Today_ you decide to break the great truancy streak of 2006?” She grabbed the remote and clicked on the TV. “Guess I’m not that pretty when I’m sick after all,” she muttered.

Logan frowned. “Uh, did you _want_ me to cut class?”

“No,” she snapped. She didn’t need to beg anyone to hang out with her. She was fun, dammit. People wanted to hang out with her for…well, for fun. Dammit.

Logan shifted his weight. “Because you made some pretty pointed comments last week about attendance grades and GPAs. Statements were made about the innate unsexiness of the playboy lifestyle and how the title needed to be changed to something more accurate to its true nature. Like flaccid weight on society.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure I didn’t say it like that.”

“Trust me, a man never forgets the word ‘flaccid’ coming out of his girlfriend’s mouth.” He tossed his keys and caught them again, tilting his head. “If you want me to stay, just say so. I’m happy to be as flaccid of a weight as society ever shouldered. Especially if it comes with a hot blonde on my uncomfortable couch.”

“I’m not going to tell you what to do.” She stared at the TV, which was deeply interesting because it was playing…pictures. Also colors. Probably.

He shifted his weight and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Uh, I’m getting some seriously mixed messages here. Because it sort of seemed like you wanted your space. When you rejected the first three blankets I brought you, then kicked me off the couch because I was ‘ten million degrees’ and also criticized my furniture choice. And my Kleenex brand. And my shoes.”

“Would I have come over here in the first place if I wanted space?” She sat up and threw the blanket aside. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll just go home and get out of your way. You’re going to class anyway.”

“What? Don’t go home. Your dad’s out of town. At least here you can order food if you get hungry.” He looked distressed. “Who will clean up after you if you don’t have maids?”

“Oh, don’t strain your housekeeping department on my account,” she snapped, reaching for her messenger bag.

He caught her by the arms when she tried to stomp past. “Veronica. Hey, don’t be like that. I’m happy to stay. I _wanted_ to stay. I just thought I was kind of pissing you off, and that if I cut class you’d be even more pissed off.” He rubbed her arms.

She scowled at the ground. “You’re not pissing me off.”

“Uh-huh.”

She scowled harder, because she was being a bitch and she didn’t mean to be a bitch but he didn’t need to make it sound like she was always mad at him because she wasn’t hardly ever mad at him, not really, and she just wanted him to cuddle her and why did every boyfriend NEED to be told when a girl wanted to be cuddled, anyway?

She let her head fall into his chest with a huff. “I’m sorry,” she grumbled. “I’m sick, I feel like ass, and I don’t mean to be grouchy.”

His arms closed around her and he kissed her mussed hair, next to her crooked ponytail. “Seriously, it’s fine. I know you think you’re being high maintenance if you tell me what you want, but I _want_ to know what you want.”

“Somebody must think I’m high maintenance,” she sniffled. “Dick called me a P.I.-zilla.”

Logan chuckled. “Dick thinks a girl is high maintenance if she asks to use the shower after they have sex. He doesn’t get to make the rules around here.”

She frowned harder, squirming against his chest. Her skin all felt wrong, and not enough of it could be touching him at once. Skin was stupid.

“What?”

“Nothing?”

“Veronica.”

She scowled, nuzzling her face deeper into his shirt. Which smelled delicious, dammit. “Maybe I wanted somebody to take care of me like they did when I was little, okay?” she growled. Her dad was out of town chasing a bail jumper and their house was silent and depressing and didn’t smell all nice and Logan-y. “Who doesn’t want that when they’re sick?”

“I already did that! When I was little, the nanny would go out and get me a multi-pack of Day-quil and Nyquil.” He gestured to the packets on the counter.

Veronica looked to the packets, looked to him. “Seriously? That’s it?”

Now she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be annoyed at his very stunted nurturing skills, or heartbroken at the idea of little Logan, sick in bed with nothing more than a box of Nyquil to comfort him. Her chest gave a painful little twang.

“Uh, yeah?” He stepped back, scratched his head. “I mean, Nyquil is good for you, right?”

She groaned. “That’s it. You have no idea how to be sick, Echolls.” She grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the bedroom.

“I feel like that wasn’t as much of a kinky challenge as it sounded like.”

Veronica towed faster, and he trailed along obediently.

“But if it makes you feel better, I’m pretty sure I’ve kissed your germs all over me by now and I’m going to get a lot more practice at being sick in a couple of days here.”

“I mean, everybody’s been sick before.” She dropped his hand and looked at him seriously. “But like, taking a proper sick day. You are crap at it. First, we need to get you out of those clothes.”

“Now, we’re talking.” He reached for his belt, and his pants hit the floor.

Veronica turned away to rummage through the dresser. “You need to wear your oldest, grungiest sweats.”

“So not what I had in mind.”

She snorted, but ignored him. “They need to be soft, and nice, but also super old and gross because when you’re sick you feel terrible so you can’t stand to wear anything nice. And also because vomit.” She stepped away from the dresser. “I can’t find anything in there. Where do you keep your sweats?”

He shrugged out of his shirt and stood in his boxers, being annoyingly hot as he opened a new drawer and pulled out a shirt.

“Not the sexy Henley, Logan, _God_!” She groaned and snatched it out of his hands, then went back to digging through the drawers. “Don’t you own _anything_ with holes in it?”

“Why would I keep anything with holes in it?”

“You’re hopeless.” She tossed him the shirt. “Okay, wear the Henley, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“That you find it sexy?” He pulled it on and winked at her. “I feel fully warned.”

“And if you don’t own anything but jeans, I guess you’ll just have to stay in boxers.”

He glanced down at his bare legs, the hint of unease passing through his face.

Veronica wagged her finger. “Uh-uh-uh. This is not about looking cool, Logan, that’s where you’ve got this all wrong. The second rule of sick days is—” She broke off, a spasm crossing her face, then bolted for the bathroom.

“Holding your hair back?” Logan asked, crouching by the toilet and rescuing a few stray strands from her sweaty cheeks as she retched. “Because I’m pretty sure I had that one down after you got food poisoning at Dick’s beach barbecue this summer.”

When she was finished, she flushed the toilet and fell back on the tile floor, gasping. “Shit. Well, this is as good of a place as any for the second lesson.”

He raised an eyebrow and she grabbed at his sleeve, tugging weakly until he laid gingerly on the floor next to her. “You’re lucky I know how often the maids clean this floor, or I might ditch class on that second lesson of yours.”

“Germophobe,” she rasped.

“You know what you were saying about rich people couches?” He shifted with a grimace. “I’m not really sure we’ve got the whole comfortable tile thing figured out, either.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” She turned on her side, huffing with the effort as she let her head list down against the floor. God, had her head always been this heavy? “Feel that?”

He turned on his side, brown eyes inquisitive. He looked surprisingly adorable in his excruciatingly expensive Henley and clashing plaid boxer shorts. “Feel what?” he whispered back, like they were at a sleepover.

“How nice and cool the tile is on your face.” Her skin was clinging to the surface a little, because she was all clammy and hot. She groaned. God, she felt like death. She was never taking a case in a preschool ever again, no matter how expensive the stolen crayons. “Nothing like cool tile when you’re sick.”

“Hmm, that is nice,” Logan murmured, brushing sweaty strands of hair away from her face so they couldn’t do that terrible tickle-itch thing they had been doing. Logan was nice. He understood about stupid hair when you were stupidly sick on a stupid fancy hotel room floor.

Veronica closed her eyes. “I’m going to think just for a second, about what the third lesson is.”

“Mm-hmm,” he said, and his voice was like a velvet carpet. How could a voice sound like that? It was almost like she was floating along, chasing the last midnight blue swoop of its sound but she couldn’t quite catch it…

#

Veronica shifted, and her shoulder ground into something hard. “Ugh.” Her mouth tasted sour, and dry. Had she been kidnapped? She licked her lips. No gag, and this didn’t have that astringent aftertaste of chloroform. But then, why was she lying on a floor if she hadn’t been kidnapped?

“Welcome back, teach.”

She dragged open one eye to find Logan lounging suavely against the bathroom wall, or as suavely as anyone could lounge with hairy legs and plaid boxer shorts. He made it look annoyingly graceful, though, one knee cocked up and his wrist draped across it, the phone he’d been playing with dangling from his hand.

“Ugh, where did I go wrong?” she groaned, hauling herself up to sitting. A fluffy towel fell from where it had been draped over her like a blanket and she stared down at another towel, folded into a soft pad with the dent of her head in it.

“I tried to carry you back to the living room,” Logan explained. “But you made a sound like a bull moose and I got frightened.”

She scoffed, shoving her misguided ponytail out of her face. “Like you know the difference in vocalizations between a bull moose and a cow moose.”

“Shouldn’t the female be called a heifer?”

“I’ll alert the management to the discrepancy.” She sagged against the bathroom sink and thought things over for a minute. “I’m dying,” she concluded.

“Okay,” he said. “Can we still put the thing about Victoria’s Secret on your tombstone?”

She gave him finger pistols. “You betcha, champ.”

He grinned, his eyes getting that happy glint that she only saw when they were alone. “That’s what I like to hear.” He hopped to his feet and extended a hand.

She lifted hers—had her hands always been this heavy?—and he pulled her so easily to her feet that she went airborne in a little unanticipated hop. She attempted to look as if this was not sexy.

Logan grinned. “Yes, I have been working out. Thanks for asking.”

She snorted, then glanced around the bathroom, wishing she would have left a toothbrush over here.

“Hold out your hands and close your eyes.”

“Ugh, I hate that game.” But she also really wanted to know what he was going to give her. She slowly extended her hands.

“I know.” His grin widened. “That’s why it’s my favorite.”

She squeeeeeezed her eyes closed, the edges trembling with the need to peek.

“No peeking.”

“I wasn’t peeking!” More than a little bit, anyway. Through the eyelashes didn’t count. She was certain the Geneva Conventions were clear on that count.

“Mouthwash,” he said, dropping it into her left. “And hairbrush” to her right.

“Ooh, really?” Her eyes sprang open. “I didn’t think I had a hairbrush over here!”

“I had the concierge bring one up after the last time you went tearing through the bathroom, muttering, ‘Why the fuck don’t I have a hairbrush over here?’”

“You sure it wasn’t after the last time Dick came crying to you because I used his?”

“If you knew how much he paid for that hairbrush, you’d know why he cried about it.”

“If I knew how much he paid for that hairbrush _, I’d_ probably cry about it.” She made use of both his presents, then kissed him on the cheek. “Okay, just give me two or three weeks to crawl back to the living room, and we can resume your instruction.”

“Unnecessary,” he said, sweeping her off her feet and into his arms. “I am an eager and energetic pupil, simply _bursting_ with the need to learn. Also, I’ve been working out.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep it to yourself, Casanova.” She hid her smile in the front of his shirt, which smelled way too good for sick day clothes. She decided to give him a pass on that rule. Just this once.

He sat down on the couch, keeping her in his lap. “Next lesson, please!” He dropped a pert kiss to the tip of her nose. “Unless you’ve decided I’m all caught up on how to be sick.”

“Nope, still remedial. You’re remanded to study hall until further notice.”

He snuggled her a little closer on his lap. “Damn. Well, may the punishment be long and the crimes be damning.”

“The only question is…” She held out her hands, weighing the two empty palms against each other. “Should the next lesson be sick day movies, or snuggling?”

He tugged her redone ponytail. “Let’s live dangerously, doll. Let’s double major.”

She kissed the top button on his Henley, which was all she could reach without having to move any part of her annoyingly heavy body. “I like the way you think, pretty boy.”

“Just wait until you see the way I snuggle.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a heck of a time writing right now, folks, but I did my best bc we all need fluffy hurt/comfort sick day fics right now!

“The important thing to remember is, you can’t watch a good movie.” Veronica pulled her legs up, sitting cross-legged on the couch.

Logan arched an eyebrow. “Of course not. Why would anyone want to watch a _good_ movie.” He waved a hand at the hotel suite. “After all, all this luxury wasn’t bought by the literary merits of _RMPs of Glory_. Or the ironic social commentary in _Pursuit of Happiness_ , starring Lynn Lester and her future soulmate in domestic bliss, Aaron Echolls.”

“Ew, new rule. Bad movies are preferred, except anything starring He Who Shall Not Be Named.” She hugged a pillow on her lap, grimacing as a spasm of pain rocketed through her empty stomach. “The thing is, you can’t really focus on a complicated plot when you’re sick.”

“Plot wasn’t really a signature of the Echolls brand.”

“Yeah, but the spray tan isn’t good for the nausea, either.”

He snickered. “Hey, you’re not looking so good. If you need to take a break from reading me the syllabus to curl up in the fetal position for a while, I understand.”

“Nah, I’m ace—” Her proclamation was interrupted by a sharper twist of her empty stomach, and she paused for a second, unsure if the dry heaves were about to start again.

“Sure you are,” Logan said. “Iron stomach and a cast iron will, that’s our Veronica. But why don’t you just hold this pillow down for a little while, just in case? It looks like it might make a break for it and I hear bail jumpers are a family specialty.”

Her head was whirling, so she let him tilt her down toward the pillow, curling into a small ball in her corner of the couch. “Never let it be said that justice escaped a Mars,” she said faintly. But she couldn’t nap right now, when she’d just so stupidly reminded Logan of his shitbag murderer of a father. She needed to keep up the banter at least until he was smiling again.

He retrieved the blanket she’d discarded earlier and smoothed it over her shoulders.

“Ah,” she said. “Good reminder. Blankets are a necessary accoutrement to the sick day, the older and more embarrassing the better. Extra points for out of style cartoon characters. This, for instance?” She waved the slick surface of the hotel coverlet for emphasis. “Terrible.”

“Never let it be said I left a lady wanting.” He hopped to his feet and swept a courtly bow. “Let your white knight draw his sword from its sheath, milady.”

“I’m really not sure I’m recovered enough for sword unsheathing,” she joked.

He wagged a finger at her. “Fairly sure double entendres are outside the sick day protocol. Keep it clean, you naughty girl.” He swept the phone receiver off the side table and dialed with a flourish.

“Hi Sarah. Logan here.”

Veronica frowned. Why was he never on a first name basis with any of the _male_ hotel staff?

“No, Veronica’s not feeling better just yet,” he replied. “Yes, the Dayquil was perfect, thank you for that.”

Veronica hid her smile by nuzzling further into the pillow. She was petty enough to enjoy that the female staff were apparently also on a first name basis with _her_ , via Logan. 

He smiled at her, wickedly enough that she knew she hadn’t hidden her reaction well enough. She stuck out her tongue at him and he laughed silently, his whole face lighting up so his next words came out ebulliently cheerful. “Sarah, I’m told a blanket is in order. So many aspects of this sick girlfriend protocol escaped me at first, you understand. Yes. Uh-huh. Yes, a throw blanket.”

Veronica frowned and stabbed a finger toward him, mouthing _You, too._

“Apologies. Two blankets. The fuzzier the better. Cartoon characters appreciated, but not required. What sort of characters? Surprise me, Sarah. Yes. Yes, thank you. Saltines? What are—oh, the square ones? So this is a thing that people…” He trailed off. “Uh-huh. Why would they want to eat bad food when they already—uh-huh. Uh-huh.”

Veronica scowled. It seemed no woman could resist the urge to educate a stray rich boy in the art and finer points of sick days. She faked a pitiful cough, and a wracking shiver.

Logan glanced over. “Right, saltines it is, thanks for the tip, Sarah. Gotta go.” He hung up and came over to fuss at Veronica’s blanket, folding it over so it’d be thicker. “You’re freezing. Want me to run you a hot shower?”

“No. C’mere.” She pulled him down next to her. “We’ve got crucial information to impart here.”

The blanket lessons lasted nearly an hour. Veronica was trying to show Logan how blankets made it ever so much cozier to curl up, and felt comforting when you were feeling bad. But he didn’t quite understand the lesson, and so she kept changing cuddling positions to try to get him to see the positive comforting properties.

He continued to be mystified through big spoon, little spoon, girl on the lap, boy on girl’s lap, and monkey arms. He got momentarily distracted from his mystification during face to face spoons, which might have had something to do with the kissing. By the time they’d made it to feet in lap, Veronica had long since wised up to his ploy, but she was enjoying it so much that she wasn’t quite ready to call him on his faked confusion.

“The thing I don’t understand,” he said, playing idly with her toes. “Is the temperature issue. Aren’t sick people feverish and hot? This calls into question the universality of the couch blanket when you’re sick.”

She argued that point spiritedly for some time. Their disagreement on the temperature issue led to him ditching the Henley, and his current boxer-clad state was possibly part of the reason behind Veronica’s very generous amount of patience for blanket and cuddling lessons.

By the time the fuzzier blankets arrived, courtesy of Sarah and the Saltines—“Pants, Logan. You need pants to open the door, even when you’re sick. Also a shirt. NOT THE SEXY HENLEY, LOGAN, _GOD_.”—they had compromised on the blanket issue by turning the A/C down to penguin habitat lessons.

He tipped Sarah and closed the door, turning to hold up the still-packaged blankets.

“Cartoon characters it is,” he said. “What Disney princess would you say you are? More of a Cinderella or a Belle?”

“I’m going to be a _frozen_ Disney princess if you don’t hand one of those over,” she said, tossing off the stiff motel coverlet and snatching one of the fuzzier blankets out of his hand. She wrapped it around her shoulders and gave a happy sigh. “Sarah deserves a raise. Now get over here and assume the position.”

Logan paused in the midst of removing the packaging from his Belle-emblazoned blanket. “I don’t know if I should be titillated or terrified by trying to guess what that might be.” He tilted his head, a lazy smirk crossing his face. “Maybe both.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled him down so his head rested in her lap. It was tugging at her heart more than she wanted to let on, watching how truly foreign all the little niceties of family and comfort were to him. She’d known his childhood wasn’t fantastic, having an abusive murderer for a father and all. But somehow she’d thought in between the worst times, there might have been a little bit of normalcy. Not all cold marble and a revolving door of professional nannies.

She flipped on the TV and it came up to the news. There’d been an earthquake somewhere, and the footage was of a building on fire. The red, billowing flames filled up the whole frame, with the whirl of emergency lights flickering at the edges. She shook her head sadly and flipped past that to Finding Nemo, setting aside the remote so they could watch a motherless clownfish find his family.

Logan normally protested cartoons, but today he lay cooperatively in her lap while she threaded her fingers through his hair, and stroked her fingertips down his cheeks.

“The best thing about a sick day,” she said after a while, “is how your mom strokes your hair, and rubs your back. It’s like even when everything in the world is on fire, and you feel terrible, you still know there are people who care about you, and everything’s going to be okay.”

His long lashes had drooped sleepily to half mast, but they flickered open again at this. “Was your mom like that?” he asked. “Before she left, I mean.”

Veronica actually had to stop and consider. “I think so. It must have been when I was so young that it’s all fuzzy, but I think she must have, for me to know. Dad wasn’t really like that. He was more bad jokes and junk food, when I was sick.”

Her stomach twisted with pain and she held very still, hoping it would pass. She didn’t want to move Logan, not when he looked so comfortable and his hair felt so nice between her fingers. But then a second cramp rippled after the first and she bit her lip.

“Here, your turn.” Logan sat up, sweeping a hand toward his lap in invitation. Veronica thought it was really wrong for anyone’s shoulders to look that broad when hung in a Disney princess blanket.

“No, I’m okay,” she protested. It was so like him to pull away when he was enjoying something so much, like if anybody saw him do it, they might guess he wasn’t as bulletproof as his sarcasm liked to pretend.

“I can feel your stomach tensing up.” He curled his fingers, beckoning her to lie down. “C’mon, I’m gonna need the momming practice if the Logan Junior accusations keep coming as hot and heavy as they have lately.”

She grimaced, crawling gingerly across the couch until his gentle hands caught her shoulders and lowered her the rest of the way, rearranging her blanket to tuck her bare feet in the bottom.

“Another one? What do you even do with all the girls who claim you’re the father of their baby?”

“I get a paternity test, whether it’s a girl I’ve ever slept with or not. Since Aaron died and all his money came to me and Trina, there started to be so many that I keep a set of cheek swabs on file with my lawyer. He just calls me to come in when he runs out and needs to do a new set.” He paused, then said lightly, “As my loving girlfriend, you’ll probably be happy to know that none of the little tykes have actually ever been mine.”

“I never thought they were.” She turned on his lap and looked up at him. “I know you better than that.”

“I’m hardly the patron saint of abstinence, Veronica.”

“Yeah, but you might be the patron saint of Trojan.” She knew Logan would never risk a child growing up without a father because of him. There were some things that never changed about him, no matter how drunk or high or reckless he was feeling at the time.

He chuckled. “Their sales numbers certainly think so.” He held the base of her ponytail and slipped off the hair elastic. “Let me know if I’m getting the momming wrong here.”

He stroked her hair, following it down to rub gentle circles on her back. Her stomach unwound and even the pressure in her stuffy sinuses seemed to ease for the moment. She exhaled.

“Hmm. You’re kind of a natural at momming, actually. Maybe you should stop rejecting all those paternity tests.”

“Haha,” he said dryly. There was an odd catch in his tone, though, and he squeezed her shoulder. She snuggled closer into his lap and patted his knee.

“Logan?”

“Hmm?”

“Maybe I’m a little glad you cut class this time.”

“You’re such a bad influence on me, Veronica Mars.” He snuggled her closer and turned up Finding Nemo.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Hey, my lovely readers. Sorry for the wait for this final chapter, but to be honest, the anxiety about everything going on with Coronavirus has been killing my ability to focus enough to write. My husband and I were on a month long trip to New Orleans and we dropped everything to get home early when it became obvious that flying was only going to get more difficult, and more dangerous in terms of spreading germs. Hoping now that we're home I'll be able to focus better to write. Books are providing a beautiful escape for me right now and I'd like to return the favor. I'd like to ask you to please take this virus seriously and socially distance yourself as much as you can to help this all be over sooner.
> 
> Love to all of you and I hope you're all safe and healthy.

**Chapter 3**

By the time Nemo was reunited with his family, Veronica was feeling a lot better. Not because she’d been in suspense over the fictional fish, but because her stomach had finally stopped trying to tie itself into a knot reminiscent of a hangman’s noose. She suspected this was due to Logan being a prodigy at sick day back rubs.

His long fingers never seemed to be in a hurry, and always seemed to know when to sweep gently and when to press more firm. Then again, considering how supernaturally intuitive he was in bed, maybe it wasn’t that surprising he’d excel at back rubs. A tingle of interest caught her attention and Veronica smiled. The cold must be passing for real if she was feeling better enough to consider seducing Logan.

She rolled over to look up at him, and burst out laughing.

“I am fairly sure your face isn’t supposed to look like that.”

“I’m fairly sure food isn’t supposed to taste like this.” He squeezed both eyes closed and opened his mouth, extending his tongue distastefully to place a square saltine on it.

“You know, you don’t have to eat them if you don’t like them.”

“I’m trying to get the full sick day experience.” He chewed determinately and then swallowed, with effort. “If I eat many more of these, I think I’ll be getting the sick experience sooner rather than later.”

“Ginger ale!” She bounced up to sitting, her blanket tangling around her knees.

He eyed her. “Is that a cute new nickname, Sniffle-puss?”

“No, silly, it’s what you drink when you’re sick. To wash the saltines down. Supposedly the carbonation settles your stomach.”

“That’s what they said about the saltines.” He looked alarmed. “If you really want some, though, I’ll see what I can do.”

He reached for the phone and Veronica jumped across him to catch his hand. “No fair calling for help. We need to go on a quest. I’ve been cooped up for too long.”

“You’re incredibly bad at this rest and relaxation thing. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Not a single soul.” She batted her eyelashes at him, and he sputtered with laughter. “Come on, show some testosterone. Don’t you want to hunt and gather? Raid and pillage?”

“It’s true, some of my best raiding has been inspired by you.” He rolled up and over the back of the couch, landing on his feet like a long, graceful cat. “Let me just grab up my club and my Viking longboat and I’ll be ready to go.”

“And pants, my dear Viking. You don’t want to frighten the townspeople.” Or get mobbed by the townsbimbos.

“Fine, pants.” He sighed, lengthily. “Though a lesser man’s ego might be injured at the way you’re always trying to get my pants back on.”

“Good thing your ego isn’t that of a lesser man, hmm?”

Since he wasn’t looking, she enjoyed the pants-less view from behind as he sauntered back to his bedroom to get dressed. She stuffed her own feet into her slipper socks with little fox faces on the toes, and bounced over to the door to wait for him. Her nose wasn’t even running very much anymore. She made a mental note to bring Logan over to the pediatric cancer wing of the hospital next week, just in case his back-rubbing curative powers might work on them, too.

“If I’d known you got this excited about ginger ale,” he said, palming his wallet and keys off the table and sliding them into his back pocket. “I’d have filled a bathtub with it and taken you for a swim.”

“You don’t have a bathtub.”

He waved a hand. “But I have a balcony. That would be a perfect place for a bathtub full of ginger ale.”

“Oh, is that how the other half lives?” She yanked the door open with one hand and pulled him through with the other. “I feel like you’d end up getting bubbles in some exciting places.”

A quick scan of the hall revealed no ice machine, and no vending machine.

“The penthouse level has many privileges,” Logan said, following her gaze, “but soda and ice are not amongst them.”

“That’s because you always call room service for those.”

“Exactly.” He punched the elevator button for down, then spun around her and leaned against the doors.

“Logan! You’re going to fall over when the doors open.”

“I like to live dangerously.” He took her by the hips and tugged her into his chest. “You sure you up for this little jaunt? Half an hour ago, you were so tired you made _me_ move the hair that was tickling your nose.”

“Mmm, I like to live dangerously.” She pecked him on the lips, and that felt so nice she went back in for more. She didn’t realize the elevator doors were opening until he tipped backwards away from her. He caught his balance without even a stumble and bowed over her hand as he swept her into the elevator. She hid her smile and hit the elevator button. They both watched the numbers as the door slid closed, then silently glided to the next floor down.

“Huh,” she said.

“So, elevators…”

“Not really the exciting raiding experience.”

“Nope.”

They checked the vending machine, which only sold Sprite, Coke, and various energy drinks with threatening names like Hulk, Monster, and SmashFaceEXTREMO.

“So, stairs?” he proposed.

“Definitely stairs. Race you?”

“Uh, are you sure you…TAKING A HEAD START IS CHEATING, MARS!”

Despite her head start, he beat her to the stairs _and_ opened the door for her when she got there.

“Show off. You know it’s bad manners to thrash a sick girl in a foot race.”

“I’m not falling for that one, detective. Last time I threw a race for you, you didn’t kiss me for days.” He laid a hand over his heart, pretending to stagger, wounded into the stairwell as he closed the door behind them. “Days.”

“The humanity.”

“I contacted the UN Human Rights Commission, but they were forced to send their ambassadors for counseling after taking my report. The level of suffering described was the worst they’d seen, they said.”

“Uh-huh.”

Veronica sauntered down the stairs, pretending she wasn’t a little light-headed from that dash. She might need another rejuvenating back rub before she was back to full health enough for footraces, not that she was going to admit that to Mr. UN Human Rights Commission over there. 

Their quest took them down every one of the floors. Each vending machine was stocked differently, so Veronica insisted ginger ale was still a possibility and they needed to exhaust all possibilities. But it wasn’t until the second floor when they finally hit the jackpot. She almost forgot to check that floor, oddly enough, since that was the stairwell where Logan pushed her up against a wall and kissed her until she couldn’t remember what they’d even been looking for. They didn’t come up for air until they were startled back to reality by Logan’s phone chiming. When they finally emerged, breathless and with chapped lips, to find a vending machine with an entire row of ginger ale, Veronica’s naturally suspicious nature began to kick in.

“Meet you back upstairs?” Logan asked, casually handing over their frosty, freshly-procured cans. “I forgot something I needed to do down there.”

“You mean tipping the concierge for going out to buy ginger ale and then sneaking it into the second floor vending machine before we got there?”

He grinned. “C’mon, what’s a raid without a little booty at the end? No fun, that’s what. Plus”—he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and winked—“you’re fun to distract.”

She sputtered into laughter as he strolled away downstairs.

#

Veronica was resting on the couch, more spent than she wanted to admit, when Logan came back in.

“This stuff,” she said, holding up her open can of ginger ale, “is kind of disgusting. Not sure how I managed to forget that.”

“New theory.” He vaulted over the back of the couch and slid down to slouch next to her, his arm thrown back up over his head. “The stuff you take to ‘settle your stomach’ when you’re sick is actually a scam designed to keep you sick.” He held up two fingers. “Cause. Effect.” Then he flipped his fingers over to switch the order.

“The clues are there,” she admitted, setting down her can. “But it could be a red herring.”

He peeked over at her, not quite meeting her eyes through his long lashes. “So now that we’ve done all your stuff, wanna take a little trip through the memory lane of _my_ childhood?”

“Depends. Is somebody going to do me in with a candlestick in the study? Will I have to eat the eggs of anything with fins instead of feathers?” She squinted at him, trying to read the shift in his mood. He so rarely offered up anything from his childhood. “Oh my god, did they make your stuffed animals out of marble and gold? I can’t believe I never thought to ask before. That would be so…uncuddly.”

“And yet so durable and easy to clean.” He hopped up, overbalanced and banged his knee on the coffee table, then extended a hand to her. “No, I was just looking at the abundance of building material we had here for a blanket fort.”

“Blanket fort, yes!” She grabbed their cartoon blankets and jumped up, then paused. “Wait, is that just a pile of blankets? How do you hold them up?”

“Ha! So there is something I did as a child that you didn’t get to do.”

“Other than meet the Queen of England?” she said dryly. “I was too busy leading expeditions down the Amazon and rescuing the neighbor’s GI Joes. Never got around to fort building.”

“More of an offensive line than a defensive line kind of person.” He nodded as if that made sense. “For the record, the Queen of England is boring when you’re an adult, but she’s extra boring when you’re a kid. And she smells like the kind of perfume that probably went out of style during the French Revolution. Which is a blessing, believe me.”

Veronica laughed. Of course he’d met the actual queen of England. Her boyfriend was ridiculous. As she was thinking it, her celebutante, royalty-meeting boyfriend started pulling out chairs and tugging them toward the open part of the living room.

“I’ll frame it up if you want to put in the walls.”

“Got it.” She retrieved their rejected hotel bedspread, stopped to blow her nose, then stole a second blanket out of his room. Meanwhile, Logan had lined up the chairs in a narrow aisle backed up to a wall, the high backs all facing to the inside. “Is four blankets enough? Could we add a sheet?” She cast a scrunched-brow look toward Dick’s room. “Not sure I’m desperate enough for a fort to touch anything out of Dick’s room.”

Logan sneezed, then shook his head. “Nah. We’ll just make the fort smaller.” He waggled his eyebrows at her and she laughed.

“Always back to your endgame of getting me in bed.”

“Or in this case, on my lap. At great peril to myself, I might add, considering how abruptly you started vomiting earlier.”

“Another argument for not touching anything off Dick’s bed.”

She stood by and handed him blankets while he draped them over the chairs to make walls and a ceiling for the blanket fort. By the third time he sneezed, she brought him a tissue.

“These blankets are alarmingly dusty considering half of them are new. You should speak to the management. Don’t you rich people throw out a blanket every time you use it?”

“No, but apparently we need to start.” He blew his nose and chucked the tissue across the room toward her pile of them. It was a long shot, but he arced the tissue ball perfectly to make it all the way there, pinging off the top and rolling down the mound of the tissue pyramid. “Nothing but net!” he exclaimed.

Veronica refused to look impressed. He grabbed pillows off the couch and mounded them inside the dark tunnel of the blanket fort.

“Milady?” He swept a hand toward the entrance. “Or do you wish to clear your nasal passages once again before entering?”

She sniffled, and crawled inside. “Funny how even adding a British accent doesn’t make blowing your nose sound classy.”

“Rich people blow their noses way more than poor people. It’s classy AF.” He crawled in behind her.

“That’s just because they can afford more cocaine.”

She settled herself on his chest, wriggling her hips until she was seated safely between his thighs. Then she laid her head below his chin, looking up at the fuzzy roof of the blanket fort. He leaned forward, abs flexing against her back, and tugged a blanket across the opening so it was dark and warm inside. Then he wrapped his arms around her.

Something hard pressed at her bottom, and she shifted, feeling a wisp of disappointment that he was in the mood and she was in no shape to do anything about it.

Logan kissed her hair. “It’s fine,” he murmured. “It’ll go away in a few minutes.”

“Not usually. In my experience, your little friend has an attention span.”

“Good taste,” Logan insisted with a laugh riding below his voice. “He knows who he likes.” He snuggled in, laying his cheek to the top of her head, obviously unconcerned with the situation. It was one of her favorite things about him.

Back in high school, Troy had always whined about his “blue balls” and how much he claimed it hurt when she kissed him without “doing anything about it.” She always felt vaguely guilty, like she was causing him pain by wanting to do any exploring or kissing at all without going all the way. But Logan had been enthusiastic about anything she wanted to do, and only ever laughed when she teasingly warned him it was just going to leave him in more pain in the end.

He’d always said the only pain he was worried about was not getting to touch her at all.

The warmth of him was soothing and Veronica let her eyes droop closed, glad she’d come over here instead of staying home by herself. Logan was an inveterate tease, so he made most things more fun, and in her most private moments, she liked how safe he made her feel. He loved her like nobody except her dad ever had, like she wasn’t sure he could stop even if he tried. Sometimes it scared her, or annoyed her when he tried to keep her home instead of on dangerous cases. But she liked that she didn’t think he _could_ leave her. If her mom had loved her that way—

She cut off the thought, focusing on tracing the veins in his forearms. Picturing how adorable he would have been as a little kid in footie pajamas and wide brown eyes, snuggled into his own blanket fort. Except—

This time, the thought didn’t allow itself to be cut off so easily. She held her breath so he wouldn’t hear, but then had to gulp air, her eyes prickling.

He shifted, trying to see her face. “Are you going to throw up again? Because I can get you—"

“Did your dad ever drag you out of a blanket fort?” she blurted.

Because it made sense, why he’d want to hide, try to make a place where he felt safe. But a blanket fort was no hiding place at all. It was painfully, innocently conspicuous and she wanted so badly for the younger version of him to have been safe inside its fuzzy walls. But she feared he never would have made them in the first place, if he’d felt truly safe.

Logan hugged her a little closer. Making her secure, the way he instinctively did even though it was _him_ she was worried about.

“Nah,” he said casually. “Aaron thought they were kind of cute. He’d crouch outside, do little voices, but if I didn’t come out, he wouldn’t come in. It was like magic.”

She nuzzled her face into his neck, aching for every time he’d been hurt and she couldn’t punish the person responsible. “I wish I believed in magic,” she whispered.

“I used to wish for someone to keep me company in my forts,” he murmured. “Trina was too old and we didn’t like each other, anyway. I wanted a fellow soldier to hold down the fort with me, or a princess to guard.” He kissed her hair. “And presto, a few years later and I have a princess soldier in my fort with me.” He did jazz hands. “Magic.”

She laughed, with a little catch to it. Partially because she knew he wanted to make her laugh, and partially because it made something in her hurt to know he had been lonely. And now he wasn’t.

Warmth glowed in her, and she felt even better, knowing the comfort he brought her went both ways.

He twitched behind her, his hands relaxing against her belly, and she realized he was falling asleep. She craned her neck to look at him, and even in the shadows of the blanket fort, he was devastatingly handsome. The soft curve of his cheek emphasizing sensual lips. The hard line of his shoulders.

“Ugh, your hair is too nice,” she muttered, and mussed it up.

He came back awake with a crooked grin. “You saying I’m hot, Mars?”

“I said nothing of the sort,” she maintained primly.

“But you were thinking it,” he purred. “You—” Then the look on his face changed. From flirtatious to something stiffer. He sat up. She twisted out of his lap.

“Logan, what’s—”

And then he dove around her, knocking over one of the chairs in his efforts not to run her over.

She followed the sound of retching to his bathroom, dragging one of the blankets along with her because he’d need something to cushion his knees, and because now that her fever had gone down, she was too cold for the cool tiles to feel good.

She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. “Want me to hold your hair back?”

He made a strange, strangled sound, then threw up some more.

When he finished, he sagged weakly with his head on his arm. “I didn’t know it was possible to laugh and puke at the same time. So thanks for that. Burns like a bitch, by the way.”

Veronica grinned. “I’m just full of surprises.”

She crossed the room and crouched to rub a small circle on his now-clammy back.

“The good news is that at least now I don’t have to worry.”

“Mmm?” he questioned.

“Because now you know how to have a respectable sick day.” She dropped a kiss to the back of his shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s see if we can knock a hole in a set of your sweats, and put on a bad movie.”

He heaved himself to his feet and reached for the mouthwash. “Anything for you, snifflepuss. Just promise you won’t make me eat any more of those saltines.”

* * *

THE END

_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or this world, this is all for entertainment only._


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